


Rupture of the Heart

by Ureksa_Crimsonriver



Series: The Lion and His Prince [1]
Category: The Iliad - Homer, Troy (2004)
Genre: M/M, Mentions of Rape, failure at writting smutt scene so i turned it to rape, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-13 19:37:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3393788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ureksa_Crimsonriver/pseuds/Ureksa_Crimsonriver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He remembered the days of torture where he broke the prince’ body to his heart’s content, the nights of pleasure where instead he had broke the man’s soul, again and again and again. And somewhere between those times, where the prince lay compliant and obedient, the hate was slowly replaced by something else. And before he can regain himself and come to his senses, it was already too late. The prince, the tamer of horses, the valiant Hector lay broken and shattered at his bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rupture of the Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Ok!!! So before anyone can sue me on this, I just wanna say . . . . I DON'T OWN ANYTHING! I do not own the movie TROY, nor was I the one to write the actual story where it really came from (that was some old guy named HOMER). Seriously, I wouldn’t be here if I did. I would have been in Hollywood (or a pile of dust on a tomb somewhere).
> 
> Anywho, I uploaded this story here but I kinda also have this uploaded at my wattpad account (midnight_DRACULINA) so before anyone can say its the same and that one of use may have done the stealing I must intervene now and say we are one and the same person! SO without further ado . . . I give you Rupture of the Heart

The beach was eerily quiet, with nothing but the sound of the waves hitting the shadowed shore. Tents of various sizes littering the white sand as thousands of ships swung afloat the dark waters. Hundreds of Funeral Pire littered amidst mourning soldiers and captains. It was another bout with the Trojans, and like many other bouts before, no side came atop the other. Casualties, dead and heavily wounded, always carried behind horses, back to camp and beyond towering walls; the tides of battle tipping endlessly from one side to another, each gaining the upper hand then losing it after. The war, once for the hand of one fair maiden now for the glory of a nation, have gone for so long; from the very day the Greeks step foot to Trojan soil with the thought to conquer as fast as they came. But days of battle became weeks, weeks became months, and months became years; still none can win, none can conquer the other; just the endless game of “Tag of War”, dancing with one another in a never ending waltz of power.

 

Among the silent tents, a small camp stayed seemingly alive; situated at the far end of the beach, separated from the others, and framed with giant rocks and sand banks bordering to soil. A live fire was lighted in the middle of a few men quietly whispering amongst themselves. The Myrmidons, a group of fine warriors, honed perfectly to the arts of war and battle, as ruthless as they want and as gallant if they deemed to be. And among these men, a lone girl sat. Her long dark curls left unbound catching the light of the dancing fire, her once elegant dressing gown now tattered with the absence of perfect care, her chocolate brown orbs fixated at a makeshift tent propped at the very end of their small camp, as far as the owner wanted for privacy. Briseis stayed unmoving, not even when she was handed a plate of food did her gaze waver from the tent far from her reach. Her mind was racing, but one thing rung loudly at her ears, there at the seclusion of that tent were two of the most important people in her life; a friend that had saved her from a fate worse than death and a dear family bound by honour and tradition.

 

The tent was a bit larger than the others, belonging to the Myrmidons master, their leader. A man of fine built, body moulded by fine hard muscles, hair a golden mane wild and untamed, eyes of sapphire blue piercing and can crumble the spirit of even the bravest of warriors, aristocratic nose and thin lips, his skill for battle perfect and as if those of the gods, unbeaten and unyielding . . . the proud Achilles. It was dark inside, nothing but a small torch lighted and attached on one of the tents mast giving a faint light. Soft moans breaking the silence coming from two bodies tangled at the middle of a makeshift bed made of various soft cloths and quilts. The larger of the two sitting, legs stretched out, back propped up by the huddle of pillows at the head of the bed, strong arms holding the smaller one moving gracefully atop.

 

Achilles stared at the small man moving on top of him, eyes gazing at the beauty impaling itself on his hard manhood. The man was small in stature, smaller than him at least, short black curls sticking at the sides of his face and at his nape, brown eyes glazed with want and desire, thin pink lips slightly parted giving small puffs of breath, hands grasping his shoulders for support, small muscled body flexing and covered with sweat rocking up and down, up and down. Achilles closed his eyes as intense pleasure grip him as the man wiggled on top of him, hips making tiny circular motions. He can feel the tight heat enveloping him, swallowing his rigid manhood to the hilt. He moved his hands from its tight grip on those sinful hips, roaming it all over his lovers body, caressing the warm, sweat slick skin. He opened his eyes to once again gaze at the man, eyes taking in the once smooth skin now marred with day’s old scars, new wounds and countless bite marks. The once defiant and rebellious eyes now empty, with nothing but desire and the want to please evident within its depths. He gritted his teeth as he felt his release nearing. He pulled the other down, claiming those supple lips and kissing it brutally, breaking skin and drawing blood. He relished at the metallic taste in his tongue, he gripped the man’s waist and lifted his hips, thrusting wildly while his other hand grip the man’s manhood, pumping it in time with his thrust. And with a feral growl he came deep within the tight ring of muscles, his essence filling the other to the rim as his lover followed soon after, painting their stomachs with the others release.

 

Achilles groaned, releasing the lips his been ravishing. His lover collapsing at his side, body limp, eyes closed and breathing coming to a shallow rhythm. He turned and lay at his side, facing his companion, eyes studying the calm face. Searching himself for the hate and loathing he had once for this man, this man who had taken from him a precious family, this man who was his enemy from the very beginning of this tiring battle, this man who was once a prince of a great city but now his prisoner, this man who was once The Tamer of Horses but now his slave . . . Hector. But he found nothing, no hate or simple dislike, just a warm feeling, something akin to adoration.

 

Hector opened his eyes, empty brown orbs staring up at him, scarred body pressing softly at his side. And Achilles can feel the guilt, the dull ringing of shame far in the back of his mind. What he had done to the once proud prince flashing through his eyes again and again, like a broken reel of film sewn together and played endlessly. He can remember the unbearable pain as Antilochus* revealed to him of his cousins, Patroclus, demise and the blinding anger for the one that had caused it. He remembered the battle just outside the walls of Troy, how he played the prince with what he thought was a pitiful fight, inflicting wounds to where he knew was more painful yet less lethal. And when he deemed it was already becoming boring to him he delivered the final strike and knocked the prince down. Tying him on his chariot, he drove and circled the walls of Troy, flaunting his price to all before turning and leaving the bewildered people, unbelieving to what had happened to their prince and what his fate would be in the hands of the enemy. He remembered the days of torture where he broke the prince’ body to his heart’s content, the nights of pleasure where instead he had broken the man’s soul, again and again and again. And somewhere between those times, where the prince lay compliant and obedient, the hate was slowly replaced by something else. And before he can regain himself and come to his senses, it was already too late. The prince, the tamer of horses, the valiant Hector lay broken and shattered at his bed.

 

Firm hands reach up and cupped his cheek, stealing Achilles from his thoughts. Raising his eyes, he was met by empty brown ones. Hector lay there, staring at him, for how long he did not know, head tilted to the side as if wondering what he was thinking, yet his eyes stayed as empty as before not showing any emotion other than that of adoration for his master forced and wedged deep within him. Achilles sighed and dipped his head, capturing those lips he had grown addicted to. Kissing the other with gentleness he rarely showed, apologising the only way he knew how. When the kiss ended, he hardened his heart once again, face etched in perfect indifference. He grabbed the others jaw, fingers digging to either side of Hectors cheeks and tilted his head.

 

“Who do you belong to?” he whispered menacingly.

 

“To you . . . Yours . . . Only yours . . . master” hector replied, voice soft even as the hand gripping his jaw made it hard to speak.

 

“Good. So very good for me” Achilles closed his eyes, crashing his lips to Hectors almost bruising.

 

He took Hector again and again, cruel and fierce. And as his heart wept with each excruciating pain his love endured within his arms, with each scathing words he whispered, each reminder of to whom he belonged to and what will happen to the ones he cared for if ever Hector leave his side, he cannot stop. For this is the only way he knew how . . . the only way he can make sure his world remained within his arms.

 

Briseis sighed and closed her eyes, turning away from Achilles’ tent where she knows he kept Hector; her heart afloat with so many conflicting emotions. She gazed at the dark night skies, sending out a silent prayer to the gods for both men. And as the moon climbs up to its place amongst the stars, she wonders what of the fate of her dear friend and her beloved cousin. .Fin.

**Author's Note:**

> Antilochus* = on the book, he was the one who relayed the news of Patroclus’ death to Achilles.
> 
> There!!! That took every ounce of modesty and shame that I have to write! Seriously, that was my first shot of writing a decent smut scene . . . or if you call THAT a smut scene. Anyway, tell me what you think okay. Was it good or bad?
> 
> I’m also thinking of making this a full on story. Depending on the reviews I get, I’ll see if this will remain a one-shot or not.


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